


good vibes only

by wellhellofuture



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series), Chef RPF
Genre: F/M, VERY MUCH NSFW, braffitz, i have no explanations just read it okay, ot3 but braffitz endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellhellofuture/pseuds/wellhellofuture
Summary: Brad accepts that Claire is going on semi-regular dates with Delany like a fish accepting that all of the water in the ocean is suddenly gone.That is to say, abruptly and not well at all.
Relationships: Alex Delany/Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	good vibes only

**Author's Note:**

> SO. This is...a wild ride. I struggled with this A Lot, so if it seems disjointed, it's because i wrote and cut and wrote and cut....etc.
> 
> Please be forewarned that while this has Delany in it and has OT3 tones, it is first and foremost a Braffitz fic. Please don't come @ me if you're looking for Claire/Delany endgame. It is not here.
> 
> Second, I owe this entire fic to @stupidsecretthings. It would not be published without your guidance & belief in me to write something worth sharing, and this would never have seen the light of day without me feeling guilty about not giving you an ending. thank you x 1000 - you answered my SOS ;)
> 
> This would not have been started at all if not for the discord, so thank you for being wonderful and not being mad that I teased this fic in....November? And am just now posting it. Y'all are the best. Come yell at me in the tag.
> 
> I'm honestly surprised I wrote something this explicit so yeah...don't read this at work, friends.
> 
> Enjoy.

Brad accepts that Claire is going on semi-regular dates with Delany like a fish accepting that all of the water in the ocean is suddenly gone.

That is to say, abruptly and not well at all.

There’s nothing he can do about it, not any more, except grill Claire about the dates and scrutinize the details for any hints that Delany’s not treating her like the precious gift she is.

(To Brad’s utmost frustration, he is. So far.)

He tries not to think about it too much, tries to tamp his irritation down along with his own regret for waiting so long, for being cautious, for thinking he had all the time in the world.

Fucking Delany, man.

The everyday changes are subtle. Delany starts hovering in the kitchen later than usual into the evenings, fidgeting with his phone, until Claire is finally content with her progress for the day. They walk out together most nights, giggling, heads tilted towards each other like they can only breathe the same air. Their banter over lunch becomes more familiar, filled with inside jokes and “Remember whens” that leave Brad grinding his food into a fine paste between his molars. And if Brad notices the sparkle in Claire’s eyes and the smirk on Delany’s lips more than ever, well, it’s just because he feels like it’s his duty as the Kitchen Manager to avoid an HR debacle.

The worst part by far is the _looks_ they give each other - flirty, teasing, and so charged with sexual tension that Brad feels uncomfortable getting in between them.

Molly notices him making a face one day while Delany and Claire are filming a segment, all lingering touches and prolonged stares.

“What’s eating you?” she asks, bumping his shoulder. “Them?” She jerks her chin towards the filming bench.

“Huh? Nah, no, I mean, well, jus’ think they maybe shouldn’t be like that on camera, that’s all.”

She scoffs, rolls her eyes. “You’re complaining about _them_ on camera? That’s rich. Find a mirror, Leone.”

“What?” he snaps, defensive, and she just laughs, walking back to check on her probably-over-salted pasta. As Delany lets his hand trail down Claire’s arm a few benches away, Brad tells himself that the painful clench in his gut is only the product of his annoyance at Molly.

It’s no surprise, then, that Brad nearly doesn’t go to the Superbowl watch party Carla throws the next month. Normally, he’d jump at the chance to relax with his friends outside of the office, but he just knows that the informal setting will allow for the kind of inappropriate behavior that he doesn’t want on his conscience. As much as he’d love to watch the Patriots crush the Falcons alongside the excellent food and bev that inevitably show up at the BA gatherings, he just doesn’t want to have to turn a blind eye, that’s all.

(It’s Claire asking him to come during an outtake for Gourmet Makes that tips him over the edge.)

He’s relieved when he buzzes up to Carla’s apartment the following Sunday and finds himself the first guest to arrive; he needs a little buffer to interact with the new dream couple in such an intimate environment. Carla, who has taken it upon herself to provide an entire meal of stuffed peppers and chili alongside all the apps, immediately recruits him to be her sous chef and he loses himself in their prep for nearly an hour.

When he emerges from the kitchen, just in time for kickoff, his heart sinks at the sight of Delany’s arms waving in the corner, regaling Molly and her husband with tales of his latest escapades. Claire leans in next to him, the picture of contented bliss, her hand settled gently across Delany’s thigh. Tuna sprawls across their laps, content as ever, and Brad rankles at how quickly Delany has taken over the role of center of attention in every room. It takes significant restraint to resist stalking out of the apartment - he feels jittery and unsettled and wishes he had a bucket of bleach scrub the image out of his eyes - but the peppers still have another fifteen minutes in the oven, so he slumps into one of Carla’s overstuffed armchairs and moodily stares into his beer. He refuses to admit how much he likes the grapefruit-bitter aftertaste of the IPAs Delany has loaded into the fridge.

By the time the rest of the crew arrives, rolling in in small waves (every single one of them cracks a joke at how they’re surprised they beat Claire Saffitz, the Queen of Tardiness, which just makes Delany smile down at her indulgently), Brad is on the verge of shattering his now-empty bottle against the wall. He _hates _this, hates the way he’s _forced _to watch them, hates the way he can’t seem to tear his eyes from the way they act so comfortably around one another. He hates their tactile familiarity, the way Delany drapes his arm around hers without thinking, the way Claire throws her head back and laughs at every damn word out of his mouth like each phrase is the funniest joke known to man.

He’s grateful when Chris drops unceremoniously onto the couch next to him, seltzer in hand. Chris’s tall, wiry frame blocks the worst of Brad’s private soap opera and he’s only mildly disappointed that Claire’s rosy cheeks disappear behind Chris’s shoulder.

“Hey, what’s up, man? Who ya got for the game?”

To be quite frank, Brad has zero idea what the score is or even what quarter they’re in, but he acts all affronted and blusters, “The Pats, _duh Morocco_, you can’t be American and not root for the Patriots!”

Apparently his answer is sufficiently impassioned, and they quickly devolve into an analysis of both teams’ offensive lines.

Three beers, several handfuls of party mix, and a rousing game of euchre later and Brad has nearly forgotten the ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach when he hears Delany’s laugh mixing with Claire’s over the general din of the crowd.

By the time the second half rolls around, the party has climbed from cool and mellow to boisterous and chaotic. Stories go unfinished, cast aside in favor of raucous bursts of giggles, and it’s almost impossible to carry on a conversation unless the recipient is right next to you. Carla’s small apartment is pushed to the brim; guests are spilling out of the seating options onto the floor, pillows, and even others’ laps. It’s Brad’s favorite kind of environment: loud enough that he’s no longer the de facto center of attention and he gets the chance to do a little people watching of his own. So maybe it’s the beer or the noise or the distraction of the game, but in any event his senses are dulled enough that he doesn’t realize Claire is returning from the kitchen to find her seat no longer vacant until she takes the last step towards the sofa he’s migrated to.

“May I?” she points to the arm of the couch.

He gives a noncommittal grunt, pretending his focus is on the game. He’s mostly gotten over the stabs of disappointment from watching her interact with Delany all night, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about the time when it used to be just _them. _Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t pick up on the care with which Claire chooses her movements; she walks like a puppet on a string, delicate and cautious and on edge.

Brad notices a buzz near his arm, though, as Claire perches carefully on the end of the sofa. He risks a glance up at her. She’s flushed and distracted, and he wonders idly if anyone’s kept an eye on how much she’s had to drink throughout the evening. He feels the insistent buzz-buzz-buzz again as she shifts restlessly on the couch’s end.

“Hey, ‘s that you ringin’, Claire? Don’t think my phone’s on vibrate.”

She’s got a funny look on her face and is short of breath when she tries to answer.

“I, uh, no, it’s, ahh-” and then the vibrations kick up in frequency and she bows her head a little, breathes out a breathless “Noooooo” as she all but slumps onto his shoulder. He’s confused for a second until he sees her desperately catch Delany’s eye. Delany, who is eyeing them from his perch against the doorframe with his hand wrapped around something in his pocket and the biggest shit-eating grin Brad’s ever seen. Before his brain can quite catch up to what he suspects is going on, Brad’s arm lifts automatically to catch Claire as she threatens to slide off the sofa into his lap. When his palm wraps around her waist, fingers reaching halfway across her abdomen, he feels the deep vibrations radiating out of her center. The realization is a slap across the face.

Dear Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Delany’s forced Claire to come to this party with a remote control vibe stuck up in her.

Brad glances frantically around the room, but everyone is either picking over the snacks sprawled across the table or absorbed in their own conversations. No one seems to notice the trembling mass of pastry chef sighing into his neck.

He glares at Delany like, what the fuck am I supposed to do about this, and with a wink Delany pushes himself up off the wall.

“Claire, babe, get a drink with me?”

In a few easy strides, Delany is in front of the pair of them, arm extended out towards Claire. She takes the proffered hand and positively _rolls_ herself off Brad’s lap into Delany’s waiting embrace; he can’t help but tense at the pressure of her hips against his crotch. Claire’s knees are jelly, and she has to lean against Delany to walk into the kitchen. To the average observer, they look nothing more than smitten and enamored with one another, thank god, but Brad can’t get his mind off the sound of Claire’s breathy moans.

No matter how much he’d like to deny it, the fire that courses through his veins is as much arousal as it is righteous frustration and jealousy.

A few minutes later, when he sees Claire slip from the kitchen into the hallway, Brad corners Delany as soon as he can. He uses his body to box them into the narrow space between the fridge and the door, trying to hide them from prying eyes. He doesn’t bother to hide his anger; resentment has been building for weeks and he relishes in the opportunity to let loose.

“Jesus, Delany, what the hell’re you thinkin’, forcing her to do that? You’re gonna embarrass her, Christ, or make her - in front of all - look, I thought you treated her better’n that.”

He’s shocked, and furious on Claire’s behalf, when Delany just tips his head back and laughs.

“Oh, you thought that was my idea? Naw, man, that was all her. She’s the one calling the shots, not me. You know how she is.” He gives Brad a speculative look. “Come to think of it, why don’t we give her a run for her money?”

And before Brad can react, Delany is pressing the remote into his palm as Claire exits the restroom down the hall. Delany slips smoothly into the living room, Claire following behind.

“What’s that in your hand, Brad?” Carla appears at his elbow, second round of peppers balanced on her palms. He panics, shoves the little black controller deep into his pockets.

“Nothing,” he says too loudly. “These done?”

“Yeah,” she says slowly, eyeing him with concern. “You okay?”

He grabs a pepper, shoves a large bite into his mouth, and flashes her a thumbs up as an answer. He’s never been more grateful that the entire kitchen is used to his erratic behavior because his entire focus is taken up by the weight of the remote burning a hole in his pocket.

Carla rolls her eyes. “Whatever, dude. Enjoy your pepper. Maybe try not to choke on it, yeah?”

“Loud ’n clear!” he mumbles thickly around a mouthful of stuffing. She shakes her head and carries the peppers into the living room to pass around. Brad hides in the kitchen long after his pepper is gone, not that it tasted like much more than sandpaper in his dry mouth.

It’s the sight of Claire looking all sated and happy and relaxed, curled into the space between Delany and that fucking sofa arm, that makes him do it.

He flicks his thumb over one of the buttons on the device, operating by feel alone, hoping he’s got the right one. A spark runs down his spine as he sees Claire jolt in her seat, then give Delany a dirty look. Delany, absorbed in conversation with Andy to his left, darts a confused glance at her. Brad watches the exact moment when Claire realizes that Delany’s hands are both out in the open, away from the remote; her eyebrows shoot up in alarm and surprise. Without a word, Delany’s lips curve into a soft smile. He senses Brad’s eyes on him and looks up, catching Brad’s gaze. Claire follows the direction of his stare, mouth dropping open into a perfect little _o._

Brad feels dirty at her obvious shock, hot guilt rushing through him, and is reaching for the power button to shut the vibe down when he sees her relax into the pillows. A naughty smile ghosts across her face, an eyebrow quirked up as if to say “Show me what you’ve got.”

And oh god, fuck him, but he can’t resist.

When Claire breaks eye contact to return to the conversation, Brad ducks into the bathroom and pulls out the remote. It’s fairly straightforward: a little red blinking light to show it’s connected to its partner (_buried in Claire_, Brad thinks, and his brain short-circuits a little), an on/off button, and two paired sets of up and down arrows to cycle through speeds and vibration patterns. He runs his thumb over the knobby surface, memorizes the placement of each control, and ignores the tiny part of him that says the smartest move would be to shut the damn thing off and give it right back. He’s never been the smartest anyway.

He splashes some water on his face and rejoins the party.

Brad doesn’t trust himself to play this little game in plain view — he’s certain it’ll be clear as day that something’s up. Still, he wants to see Claire’s face, watch her reactions as he puts her little friend through its paces, so he mirrors Delany’s earlier stance half-hidden in the shadows of the door frame.

Claire goes rigid in her seat when he ups the vibrations a couple of notches out of nowhere. It’s probably cruel, to surprise her so suddenly like that, but he zeros in on the flushes of pink that crop up on the high points of her cheeks and can’t look away. After a long moment, she adjusts to the new speed and settles back against Delany, cuddling closer against his side.

Dammit, it’s Brad who’s controlling the fucking thing inside of her and yet she’s clutching closer against someone else, against Delany of all people, and Brad sees red. Delany, who brought her here like this, who allowed her to come in public with that vibrator so that the whole world could see her hot and turned on and completely at his mercy. Delany, who could have any girl he wanted, who Brad knows has been on dates with models and athletes and minor celebrities, who has chosen the most incredible soul in the universe, the only person who should never have been an option for him in the first place. Delany, who is _letting _Brad do this out of the kindness of his fucking heart, to tease the girl he gets to take home.

Brad’s been a fool.

But agonizing over how he’s waited too long or if it’s still too late will have to wait for another time, because in this moment all he wants is to make Claire know she’s completely his.

He slides his thumb over to the button controlling the vibrator patterns. He has no idea what setting the device is on (or what patterns it comes with), but judging by what he’d felt on the couch he’s willing to bet it’s just set on a low, steady pulse. One push of the button makes the remote stir in his hand; he jumps, startled, and nearly misses the sample pattern drummed out against his fingers. Two short pulses, then a pause, then two more.

Claire doesn’t react much, just laughs at one of Andy’s jokes, so he presses on. Repeated intense pulses now, a short pause in between. He’s pleased when he sees Claire’s thighs press together, subtle enough to be nearly unnoticeable, but then again he can’t bear to look anywhere but at her. She still manages to keep up with the conversation, though, nodding along with Delany, so he hits the button yet again. The pattern switches to three quick gentle vibrations, then a long intense buzz. Claire’s eyes flutter closed, a sigh ghosting out of her lips, and he ups the vibration strength just a little.

He’s gratified when he sees her tilt forward, sort of hitch her leg across Delany’s lap and press her hips in close. The thought of her getting herself off, here in the living room, by rutting against Delany’s leg has him pressing the button furiously.

The next pattern is intense: he can almost hear the little buzzing against his leg. Nearly three seconds of strong, deep vibrations, then a brief pause. Claire shifts her hips restlessly, and if he watches closely he notices her pressing up against Delany’s leg for a count of one-two-three, then pulling back. Her motions are getting a tad too out of control, a touch too obvious, so he follows his gut and - after checking to make sure he’s decent - makes his way across the room to her.

When he gets to the sofa, he’s thankful to realize that Delany has picked up the slack in the conversation and Claire could possibly pass for extremely tired instead of turned on out of her mind. Nonetheless, Brad’s not yet done with her, so he brushes his hand along her shoulder and asks, “Dessert?”

She blinks up at him, eyes glassy, breath short.

“Yes,” she breathes, and follows willingly when he guides her to the kitchen. As soon as they’re out of view of the door, he crowds her up against the far wall.

“You feel it?” he growls, forcing a leg between her thighs. “You feel me making that thing move in you? Making you feel like this?”

She moans unintelligibly and thunks her head back against the wall. The pale line of her neck, open and exposed, does funny things to Brad, so he retaliates by upping the vibration one last time. He can see the pattern clear as day in her body: she goes tense and still, tendons popping out, for the three seconds of pulses, then slumps, panting, during the break. He can tell she’s getting close, a faint sheen of sweat cropping up across her forehead.

With each cycle of vibrations, the toy brings her closer and closer to finishing, but it’s not quite enough to make her come; the sensation fades out _just _too quickly to push her over the edge. Brad watches greedily as she throws her head back and forth, bites down on her lip, strains for the tiniest amount of extra stimulation to give her what she needs. Her eyes, squeezed shut against the onslaught of pleasure, suddenly blow wide open and find his own gaze. Her irises are pools of liquid chocolate, pupils dilated so he can only see a ring of color at the edges. Her chest heaves as her breath comes in shuddering gasps, and he can tell she’s desperate, grinding against him to try to carry herself over. He sees her mouth falls open in a wordless plea, so he takes pity on her, and when the next series of vibrations shake her body, he flicks the remote one last time to switch the toy into constant, intense vibrations - exactly what she needs to cross the boundary into ecstasy.

As his mouth slants over hers to swallow her cries as she peaks, harsh and hot and hard, his heart breaks more than a little because this wasn’t how he wanted it to go. He’d wanted - he’d dreamed of - sweetness and the taste of pastry and maybe even some candles, not the acrid bite of beer and the knowledge that he’s getting her off on a toy that _someone else put in her. _He holds her through it, can’t bear to let go, but with every shudder that wracks her body he feels bile rise up in his throat. He has all intents to push her away from the kiss, but she throws him for a loop when she sighs so soft into his collarbone, clutches at his chest, moans all quiet and desperate. “Brad - I can’t - no more, ple-ease - “

Her voice breaking on the plea sends a spark of something dangerous down his spine, coiling and twisting in his belly, but he heeds her request and shuts off the vibe. She slumps further into his embrace, mouths gently at his neck, and he feels a visceral ache in his chest at the urge to wrap her up in his arms. Instead he keeps himself propped against the wall, locking his elbows to resist curling into her. He pants harshly into her hair, tries to get his breathing under control.

His blood runs cold when he hears footsteps against the linoleum behind them.

He spins on the balls of his feet, ungainly and out of balance and more than a little hard, pushes a surprised Claire behind him, but it’s only Delany, hip popped against the fridge and a smirk across his face. Brad has the sudden urge to sock him. He doesn’t have to ask how much Delany saw - he’d been too occupied with Claire to hear him walk in, but he’d put money on all of it.

Knowing that his precious time is up, ignoring the stabs of guilt in his chest, Brad steps aside to let Claire through. God, she’s gorgeous like this - hair mussed, mouth swollen, eyes shining in the golden light of the kitchen. He commits the look of her to memory, buries it deep in his mind, tells himself he needs to go home.

Claire pads across to Delany, lifts up on her tiptoes to press a swift kiss to his cheekbone.

“How ya doin’, babe? He treat you well?”

“Mmm,” she agrees, cuddling into the space under his arm. She fits neatly, like it’s where she’s always meant to be, and Brad feels vaguely sick.

“Ready to head out soon?” Delany asks, and he’s talking to Claire but he’s staring right into Brad’s eyes, rubbing it in, the son of a bitch.

And for someone who’s 6’4”, Brad’s never felt smaller in his life, like he’s some minuscule speck of dirt on the sole of Alex fuckin’ Delany’s shoe. He’s never been more keenly aware of his lack of wealth, of an education, of proper refined taste ’n shit, of -

“Do you wanna leave first, Brad? Wait for us in the lobby, maybe?”

It’s Claire who speaks up, biting her lip like she’s got a secret. It’s a hell of a secret because Brad doesn’t understand, can’t make his big dumb brain put the pieces together, and it must show on his face because Delany throws his head back and gives a big throaty laugh.

“He doesn’t get it, babe, you’re gonna have to tell him.”

“Look,” Brad says crossly. “I don’t know what you’re playin’ at, but it ain’t funny.” He’s shocked into silence, not for the first time that night, when Claire peels herself off Delany’s side and moves to stand in front of him. She peers up at him from under her lashes and his heart does a funny sort of spasm.

“Come home with me. With us,” she whispers.

He’s not naive, he’s taken his fair share of runs around the bases, but this is the first time in his whole fucking life someone has just walked right up to him and asked him to be a part of a threesome.

Nervously, Brad flicks his eyes at Delany, worried he’ll be rolling up his sleeves prepping for a fight, but Delany just smirks back at him. The past several hours flick through Brad’s head like a movie reel - Claire wearing that stupid vibrator, Delany nearly making her orgasm in front of everyone, Claire allowing him to make her come - and it hits him.

They’re a pair of goddamn exhibitionists.

“Look,” he starts awkwardly, “I appreciate - that’s not really my thing, y’know, I-“

Claire cuts him off with a raised brow and a firm squeeze where he’s half hard in his jeans. Brad can’t help the breath that rushes harshly through his nostrils, and a flare of embarrassment courses through him at letting himself be manipulated so easily.

“Doesn’t look like it’s not your thing,” Claire says simply, a dangerous spark in her eye. But that’s not what does him in - it’s Delany, artfully propped against the counter, grinning at him wolfishly like he knows Brad’s too much of a prude to take her up on the offer, like he _knows _Brad will say no and he’ll have Claire to himself all night, like he will every night.

“Fuck it,” Brad hears himself say. “You want me to come home with you? Fine, I will.”

And if the thought of having Claire, even for one night, isn’t enough to make him giddy with possibility, the bright smile she gives him makes everything worth it.

_

It’s simple enough to duck out of Carla’s apartment; everyone is too engrossed in the game and each other to notice if the three of them are acting oddly, much less make a comment about it. It gets a little awkward when they call a cab to take them back to Claire’s apartment on the Upper West Side, mostly on Brad’s behalf, but Delany just slides smoothly into the bench seat and Claire tugs Brad in after her.

Claire kneading both of their thighs simultaneously during the drive does _not _make it any less torturous.

What does make it torture, though, are his own thoughts, cycling viciously out of control. By the time they make it to Claire’s walk-up, he’s convinced himself this is the worst possible idea, unconvinced himself, and then flopped back again. For the sake of assuaging his conscience, he tries once more to appeal to Claire’s common sense.

“You don’t gotta do this, ya know,” he pleads earnestly as she fiddles with the lock, trying desperately for a loophole out of this mess.

“Neither do you,” she says simply, and he grinds his teeth that she knows him enough to be certain that he could never in a million years walk away from her, especially not like this.

He follows them meekly through the open doorway. He ignores the fact that he’s still as hard as when Claire grabbed him in the kitchen.

Brad’s not quite sure of the mechanics of all of this; he’s only really seen shit like this happen in movies, but he thinks he’s supposed to go sit in a corner and maybe like jack off or something while Claire and Delany go at it. That’s what exhibitionism is, right?

He’s peering around, trying to find a good spot (will they move to the bedroom? the couch? the kitchen counter, _Jesus Christ_) when Claire sidles up to him, breaking him out of his reverie.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, winding her hands around his neck.

“That’s my line,” he replies automatically, hands settling on her hips of their own traitorous accord.

“Relax, bro,” Delany chimes in from where he’s pouring a couple of neat whiskeys. “Let her take care of you.”

Brad’s first instinct is to argue, say that it’s him that should be taking care of her, not the other way around, but evidently Claire is tired of all this talking and mulling over. She leans up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips against his, softly, gently, not at all like the passion of their earlier coupling.

Brad is frozen, still not sure if he’s allowed to reciprocate, if Delany will haul him out back and kick his ass to next Tuesday, so he holds himself deadly still. Claire huffs a frustrated little breath, slants her mouth wider against his and uses the tip of her tongue to flick against his upper lip.

It’s that stupid, sexy, intoxicating little tongue of hers that finally does him in. At the first feeling of her licking into his mouth, Brad’s eggshell-thin control shatters into a million pieces. He hauls her up against him, one arm firmly around her waist, one hand cupping her sweet ass. He lets her fully into his mouth, traces his tongue around her full bottom lip and the delicate skin of her upper palate. He’s lost in her, drowning for what feels like hours, drinking in her little moans of pleasure and appreciation like a man dying of thirst.

He almost doesn’t notice when Delany crowds up against them.

“Let’s go to bed,” Delany growls, his warm, whiskey-laden breath whispering over their jaws. He drops a kiss to Claire’s temple, then to Brad’s jaw, right at the hinge where his jawline meets his ear. Brad’s shocked at the heady spark that zings through him, raises an eyebrow at Delany. Just to check.

“Don’t you want me?” Claire murmurs, darting her eyes between the two of them. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, pink and swollen from Brad’s kisses, and Brad’s surprised to hear himself groan aloud.

“I thought - aren’t I just ‘sposed to watch?”

Claire’s demeanor changes from seductive to cross. “Brad, did you think I came all over you in Carla’s kitchen just to have you come _watch_?”

Delany barks out a laugh and Brad feels a smile spread across his face at the reappearance of _his_ Claire, temperamental and single-mindedly focused on what she wants. And oh god, it does funny things to him that what she wants is him.

He thinks he might just stare down at her, all stupid-happy, for the entire evening until Delany claps him on the shoulder.

“Dude. She wants this, I want this, you want this. Don’t overthink it.”

Brad looks up to catch Delany’s eye, and a wave of understanding crashes over him. Delany knows, has known all this time, how Brad feels for Claire. He’s letting Brad have this, one night, with her, with them - he’d be a fool not to take it. It’s exactly what Brad needs to slip seamlessly back into his usual demeanor, boisterous and uncontrolled, so he paints a wolfish grin on his face and smirks down at Claire.

“Ya gonna take me to bed, Saffitz?”

“Took you long enough,” she says, smiling with her mouth and her eyes, just like he’s

taught her. She pulls him down for one last searing kiss, like she’s rewarding him for saying yes, and _oh yeah_ he’s into that.

Delany grabs the second, still-full glass of Bulleit and leads the way from the kitchen down to Claire’s bedroom, barely lit by an upright lamp in the far corner. Brad trails behind, enjoying the sway of Claire’s hips in her jeans as she lengthens her stride to catch up to Delany at door.

“C’mere, you,” Delany growls playfully when she reaches him, squeezing her to his side and wrapping his arm low around her hips. She looks so small next to him, petite and fragile against Delany’s muscles and height, that Brad can’t help but think of her stretched out between the two of them on her bed.

Delany further exaggerates the size difference by ducking down and bending her back to nuzzle down the column of her neck. Claire’s fingers dig into Delany’s biceps, her body prone beneath him, and a flare of heat starts low in Brad’s spine at the sight of her completely at Delany’s mercy.

With one last nip at her collarbone, Delany pulls Claire back up to her feet and spins her gracefully into her room.

“Take it away, babes,” he grins, giving her ass a firm slap as she sashays further into the room.

Brad decides right then and there that he’s gonna milk this for all it’s worth - he’s given them both many a chance to back out of this, and he’s been thinking of Claire as more than just a coworker for long enough that he’d be stupid to waste this.

So by god, whatever Delany does to Claire, Brad’s just gonna do even more.

He stalks after Claire into her bedroom and catches her before she can fully cross to the bed. She turns to look at him over her shoulder, backlit by the glow of the lamp in the far corner, all sparkling eyes and kiss-bruised mouth, and he powers through a rush of pure want.

“You gonna be good to us tonight?” he says as he snugs himself up behind her and winds his fingers into her hair.

“Are you?” she teases, grinding back into where he’s hard and waiting.

“Nothin’ but the best for you, babe,” he murmurs before tracing Delany’s path down her neck, and Brad hopes he hides how much he truly means it.

The skin on her neck is delicate and soft; he smells something warm, like vanilla and jasmine, and tastes salt and sweat. She’s so pale in comparison to his deep tan, so when he sucks even gently her skin immediately reddens under his lips.

He loves the look of his marks on her.

After setting the whiskey glass on Claire’s nightstand, Delany joins them in the center of the room. His fingers immediately find the buttons of Claire’s blouse, something soft and silky, and soon the shirt is fluttering to the floor.

Even over her shoulder, the view of Claire’s breasts in her bra nearly brings Brad to his knees.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans when he gets a view of the apricot lace, delicate and strong, just like her. His hands go to her waist, poised to sweep up and over her delectable cleavage, but Delany beats him. A mess of ginger curls blocks Brad’s view as Delany stoops to nip along Claire’s exposed décolletage.

Annoyingly, Claire leans further into the caress, sighing softly into Delany’s ear, so Brad takes advantage of the reprieve to shuck his flannel and t-shirt.

He stands frozen for a long moment, feeling exposed and self-conscious, when Claire’s hand reaches back for him. He lets her pull him forward to nestle against her again, but this time he settles his hands lower on her hips and mouths gently against her ear.

He lets his fingers dance along the edge of her waistband, flicking down to run along the seam of her fly, and is gratified when she pushes up against his hand. Delany’s still attending to her breasts, leaving angry red lines of bite marks and beard burn, but Brad wants to _see _her.

He pops open her fly and dips his fingers inside to cup her. He’s met by soft satin, and a quick peek makes him decently confident that her panties match her bra.

Needless to say, it’s a good look.

He can feel the heat radiating from her core, and before he can even move she grinds down against the heel of his hand with a moan.

Operating on instinct, Brad leans forward to whisper in her ear. “You wanna come again, Claire? Gonna come with both of us this time?”

“Yeah, you are,” it’s Delany who answers. “Gonna come all over us, aren’t ya, Claire.”

“Let’s get this off then,” is Claire’s response as she tugs at Delany’s sweater. He obliges, stripping it off and throwing it to the corner of the room.

Instead of stepping back up to Claire, Delany slinks backwards to the foot of Claire’s bed. He eases himself back lazily, settles on his elbows like a marble statue, all controlled and artfully arranged. A smirk spreads across his face - something a little more dangerous and dirty than his usual boyish smile for the camera.

Brad imagines Claire spread out just like that, their own Venus, elegant and proud.

Claire follows Delany’s lead onto the bed; she reclines back onto him and hooks her ankles around his calves, spreading her thighs wide with no shame. Her satin panties are darkened right at the center of her, reminding Brad that she’s already come at least twice and is bound to be oversensitive.

He steps up to the foot of the bed and slides onto one knee. As he leans in closer to Claire, he can smell her, intoxicating musk that makes him want to dive into her, but he controls himself. He wants to make this good for her. Brad skims his fingers ever so softly up the swell of her thigh; in his past experience, women like to be teased and coaxed, especially after multiple orgasms.

He should’ve expected to be surprised by his unpredictable Claire.

“No,” she whines after only a few seconds of playful touches. Her fingers find his hand and press with surprising strength to where she’s hot and waiting.

“You want it, huh, babe?” Brad says as he crawls further up the bed.

When he dips his fingers into her soaked panties, he can’t hold in an appreciative groan. She’s positively dripping moisture, so much so that he’s half surprised the toy inside her hasn’t shorted out. With a quick tug, he glides the soaked fabric down her legs to reveal close-cropped damped curls.

“Oh, honey, you’re so wet - so pretty like this, all ready for us. Do you want this thing out?” He pulls on the toy. “Want something else in you, hmm?So fucking wet, so beautiful, babe.”

When he slides the tip of a finger in alongside the toy and slides it out, more liquid gushes out into his palm. Without thinking, be brings his hand to his mouth and tastes, Claire’s eyes following him the whole while. They lock eyes as Brad drags his tongue through the wetness in his palm.

“So sweet,” he murmurs, and she is - sweet and tangy and addictive. At his words - or maybe the look in his eyes - Claire drops her head back over Delany’s shoulder and lets out a wordless moan.

Delany takes advantage of her prone position to flick open the hook and eye of her bra (Brad rolls his eyes at how smooth he does it, one handed and without looking). Delany eases the straps down her chest and peels away the filmy lace; Brad’s breath quickens in his chest as Claire is exposed bare in front of them.

Claire’s own chest is visibly heaving, a pretty red flush creeping down her sternum, and Brad can’t help but stare.

As many times as he’s fantasized about her in all stages of undress, the sight of her (real, here, in the flesh) takes his breath away.

Brad had nearly forgotten about the second drink Delany had carried into the bedroom until Delany drags the glass to the edge of the nightstand. An untimely joke about whiskey dick pops into Brad’s brain, but it’s immediately evident that Delany doesn’t intend to drink when he dips his first and middle fingers into the amber liquid.

Claire’s eyes are still barely cracked, her face tilted towards the ceiling, so the first shock of cool whiskey traced around her areola makes her gasp and shudder. Her nipple immediately beads into a hard nub; the breath Delany ghosts over her leaves goosebumps in its trail.

Delany’s finger traces lazy circles around first one nipple then the other, the liquid turning her raised nipples into glistening candy in the lowlight of the room. As he continues to dip into the drink, the whiskey gathers at the tip of Claire’s nipples before gravity takes over and tiny little droplets ribbon over her rounded breasts to pool in the dips of her abdomen. Claire’s heavy, panted breaths add to the movement, the resulting ripples only shaking more droplets free.

Brad is transfixed, unable to imagine anything hotter than Claire, wet and wanting, spread out in front of him.

“Beautiful, isn’t she,” Delany breathes, eyes focused on what his hands are doing to Claire’s breasts.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Brad agrees, watching a smile flick across Claire’s face, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Even though he recognizes this for the gift it is, knows it’s only one night, he’s struck by the sudden urge to mark her as his own. Wants to give her a reminder, even if it’s only until the bruise fades, that he could be just as good as Delany at worshipping her.

Delany is using one hand to anchor Claire’s torso against his own as he reaches for the whiskey glass, leaving one nipple free, and Brad lunges forward to take the other into his mouth.

There’s not enough alcohol to give any sort of burn, only a subtle smoky woodsiness that fades to salt and sweet and pure Claire. Brad doesn’t bother being gentle, having learned his lesson, and sucks at her nipple hard enough that he wrenches a groan from her. With a flick of his tongue, he shifts over just a bit to bite into the border where her areola meets her breast, striking up a pattern of bite-suck-lave with his tongue.

Eventually, Claire’s cries turn from desperately aroused to slightly pained, so Brad lifts his head to survey his handiwork. Sure enough, an irregular oval of red-splotched skin is just to the left of Claire’s nipple, and Brad’s seen enough hickeys to know it’ll turn into one.

In any event, he can’t ogle too long, because with a strong hand to the top of his head, Delany urges Brad back down Claire’s body. Though it physically pains him to tear himself away from the gorgeous, plump flesh of Claire’s breasts, Brad is more than content to resume his place settled in between her thighs.

Their attention to her nipples has created even more moisture, beading at the crease nearly hidden behind neat curls, and there’s no resistance when he runs his finger from bottom to top. He’s hypnotized by the cyclic movement of her hips rocking against the pressure; she writhes against his hand and groans out, “More.”

Brad obliges, adding a second finger and angling them so they slip into her on the next downward sweep.

“Shit, Claire,” he swears when his fingers slide in without resistance, all smooth, slick heat. He crooks up his pointer finger inside of her to press against the spongy ridge at the top of her channel and maneuvers his hand so the heel of his palm provides constant pressure against her clit.

“Ah-h-h,” she moans brokenly, “Yes, just like that, _please_.”

He’s transfixed by his big, broad hand nestled between her pale thighs, the contrasting textures and colors making him feel like a neanderthal in front of a queen.

The feelings of ownership and possession pulsing in his chest don’t help either.

“You like fucking yourself on my hand, babe, yeah, gonna come like this, make my hand all wet, want something more than just a toy, honey?” he babbles, not even sure he’s making sense, trying to distract himself from the fact that he’s got two fingers up inside of _Claire fucking Saffitz _and he feels like he’s about to explode and —

“More,” she cries again, and yeah, no, he’s not gonna let her down, so he slips in a third finger and ducks his head to take her clit into his mouth. She goes rigid between them and wails loud and long.

Brad glances up to see Delany contorted to take her left nipple into his mouth while he rolls and pinches her right with his hand.

A hot flash of something - jealous, arousal, something else, he’s not sure - streaks down his spine and dammit, he is not going to let Delany be the reason Claire comes, not this time.

He doubles down on his efforts: spreads his fingers wider, rubs insistently against that spot deep inside her, slips a hand under her ass to press her closer into his face. With afinal nip at her clit, she explodes between them, and Brad’s vision goes white at the gush of fluid and tight pulsing of her inner muscles against his hand.

He guides her through it, stokes her and murmurs sweet phrases into her thigh that he’d be embarrassed to say anywhere else. Finally, what feels like an eternity later, she stills and sighs. She cranes her neck to look down at him and smiles gently, the one she seems to save just for him - soft and indulgent. He must look like a dope, face filthy and wet with affection written across it in big, bold letters, but she just cups his cheek gently and brushes her thumb along his cheekbone.

Delany, on his part, drops his head to nuzzle at the juncture of Claire’s neck, but Brad recognizes it for what it is: letting them have this moment.

“Thank you,” Claire whispers, and Brad reflexively twists his head to drop a kiss into the palm of her hand.

He’s uncomfortable now without something to focus on, so aroused he feels itchy and exposed and like his heart is bleeding all over the floor. He slips back off the bed and stands up, and he’s not sure if he’s going to grab a glass of water or if he’s headed for the door and not coming back, but Claire slides up to her knees before he can get far.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she teases. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“I, uh, um,” is his intelligent reply - he’s more than a little distracted by the bounce of her breasts as she crawls across the bed.

As soon as she’s within reaching distance, her hand goes straight for his fly, where he’s straining uncomfortably against the tough denim. He hears her sharp intake of breath when she pops the button and eases down the fly to find nothing but him, soft skin and hard flesh, and she quirks a surprised eyebrow at him.

He can’t do anything but shrug and exhale through his nose, thinking of drill bit sizes and nicking his fingers on the mandolin and that one time his SCOBY grew mold to keep himself of focusing on the feel of Claire’s cool hand on his dick. When she squeezes her hand at the base and twists, he can’t take it anymore and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fuckin’ hell, Saffitz,” he groans, “you tryin’ to kill me?” And her peal of laughter in response doesn’t really help anything, since he’s so conditioned to looking across the kitchen in response to that sound only to see her doubled over the filming station, her pert ass sticking out and drawing his gaze like a beacon.

He darts his glance up the bed desperately, hoping for a distraction, only to see that Delany’s shucked his own jeans and is stroking himself lazily on top of the covers. Brad can’t help but compare them; he’s pretty proud of his own dick, knows it’s a bit bigger than average, and his ego swells when he notices he’s just a touch longer than Delany. Delany _is _a little thicker, though, which rankles, but again Brad is distracted when the dry slide of Claire’s hand is replaced by the wet warmth of her mouth.

“God_damn_,” he groans and has to consciously fight to keep his knees from buckling. He’s so tall that Claire has but to lean forward to get him into her mouth, which only makes her ass stick out even more prominently from his viewpoint.

Claire’s gentle with him, almost too gentle, and he works hard to resist from thrusting into her mouth; he has no interest in forcing himself on her. She flattens her tongue at the base of him and licks up, tracing the raised ridge on the bottom of his dick. Every third pass or so, she opens wide and takes him in nearly halfway, striking up a pattern just unpredictable enough to keep him on edge.

Brad’s transfixed by the sight of his dick disappearing into her mouth, stretched wide and red, and he hears more than sees Delany roll on a condom and tap Claire’s thigh. As she shifts back to move closer to Delany, she sucks Brad in as far as she can and _holds _it, hard and hot, and he throws his head back with a groan.

She quickly resumes a pattern, more predictable this time, and it’s not until Brad manages to open his eyes that he realizes it’s the force of Delany fucking into her from behind that’s moving her mouth on his dick. A rush of arousal floods through him, white hot and sudden, and it must show on his face because Claire pulls off him with a pop.

“Don’t come yet,” she warns playfully and wraps her fingers uncomfortably tight around the base of his dick.

She does nothing more than tease him from there on, light licks and butterfly kisses while he’s powerless to do anything but watch her shift between them, back and forward and back again. She looks so small, so delicate, that he half considers stepping back to give her a reprieve, then she pops off the crown of his dick with a sound so wet and dirty he can’t think of anything else.

Slowly, Delany’s pace speeds up, his breaths devolving into heavy grunts, and Claire pulls off Brad to keep her balance on the bed.

“Do you want—” Brad starts, reaching for her clit to give her some stimulation, but she just shakes her head and moans under her breath. With a deep groan, Delany grinds into her one last time, muscles twitching as he empties himself into her. Once he recovers, he leans down to drop a sloppy kiss to Claire’s back as he slides off the bed towards the bathroom.

Claire sits back on her haunches, moans a little as she settles into the stretch, and Brad’s speechless once more at how beautiful she is like this, open and bare.

“C’mere,” she says, crooking a finger at him and patting the bed behind her. “Come lay down."

He feels sort of awkward, like he’s assuming the position or something, as he crawls onto the bed and lays on his back beside her, but her beaming smile makes something fall into place deep inside him. She leans over to the nightstand, throws back the rest of the whiskey, and fishes another foil wrapper out of the first drawer.

She rolls on the condom with sure fingers, and even that is enough to make Brad’s blood boil dangerously, so he feels obligated to tell Claire he’s on the verge of losing control any second.

“I gotta tell ya, Claire, I - I’m not gonna - oh, _shit_,” he gasps as she swings her leg over him and settles down on him in one firm stroke. She’s hot and snug around him, and oh so wet, and it feels like fireworks and butterflies and the most exquisite kind of torture all at once.

He wants it to be good for her, he knows he only gets this one time, wants to give her the most excellent memory of him, but he’s helpless to do anything but gasp wordlessly as she sets up a merciless rhythm above him. He fights with his heavy eyelids, wants to keep them open to watch her move above him like a sex goddess, all flowing hair and gorgeous curves.

All too soon, the circles of her hips and the wet heat of her pressing against him is too much to bear, no matter how hard he fights, and he warns her, “Claire, babe, I’m - I’m gonna—”

He’s gratified that she’s at least letting out little satisfied moans, until suddenly her pace changes and she gasps.

“Ah, ah, _Brad_—” and he has the sense of mind to press his thumb against her clit, and that’s all it takes before she’s shuddering above him.

The pulse of her inner muscles against his dick pushes him over the edge, and he grits out her name as he comes. He comes harder than he’s ever come in his life, groaning, shoulders lifting off the bed as he grabs onto her hips as an anchor. His orgasm seems to go on forever, wave after wave of white hot pleasure ripping through him from his toes to the tips of his ears, and when he finally comes back to himself Claire has slipped off him to cuddle into his side.

She presses a sweet kiss to his bicep, innocent compared to the acts they’ve just committed, and that more than anything makes Brad’s stomach cramp up.

“Pretty damn good, Saffitz,” he says gruffly, avoids the feelings of loss and regret and wretched, slimy guilt.

“Mmm,” she says sleepily, tucking her head against his shoulder. “’M cold.”

“You’re cold, huh? Lemme help ya.”

He stretches as far as he can (too far, his exhausted muscles scream) but he manages to grab a blanket to wrap her in. He’s debating whether to slip out before or after she falls asleep, but before he can go she snakes an arm around his torso.

“Stay,” she whispers into his chest.

And fuck, he knows it’s gonna hurt even more tomorrow, but he’ll be damned if he gives up even one more moment with her, even when Delany slips into bed on the other side of Claire a few minutes later.

He tries not to get used to how much he likes the feeling of her cuddled against his chest.

-

When Brad wakes up the next morning, there are only two people in bed. Claire’s salt and pepper waves are splayed across her pillows, her face smushed against the fabric. To the objective observer, it’s not her most attractive angle, but Brad thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. The comforting warmth of her hand across his bare chest doesn’t help anything, and he tries valiantly to tamp down the swooping twirls of joy that fill his abdomen. He slides out of bed, careful not to stir Claire, and pulls on his pants from yesterday before following the sounds coming from the kitchen.

He finds Delany humming to himself in front of the stove, a pan full of half-scrambled eggs coming together. It irks him that Delany’s dressed to the nines, sweater draped over his shoulders and stovepipe jeans tucked into distressed boots. Brad swipes a hand through his curls, uncomfortable, not sure where to start. He wishes he’d grabbed a shirt; he feels kind of exposed.

“I’m sorry,” he starts hesitantly. “I know I prolly, y’know, stepped over the line last night, I just, got a lil carried away and all, and…I know she’s your girl,” he finishes awkwardly.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Delany asks in disbelief, shaking his head as he stirs the eggs a touch too hard. “You know, if I thought I had even half a chance with her, I wouldn’t hesitate, way you’re acting right now. C’mon, Leone, I know you got a brain up there.”

“I’m tryin’ to be the good guy here,” Brad says testily. “You’re makin’ it kinda hard.”

“And I’m trying to knock some sense into your skull, dummy! Are you really so blind you can’t tell she’s been gone on you for years?”

Brad’s brain has completely left the building, evidently, because it _sounds _like Delany’s trying to tell him Claire’s got feelings for him, which makes _zero sense _because it’s Delany who’s been taking her on dates, who’s been coming into work with her, been flirting at her across their station right under his nose.

“I - I don’t understand. I thought - you and her?”

Delany just laughs, carefree and sad all at the same time.

“I wish, man. She’s amazing, you know that. But yeah, no, Claire’s just a woman who loves sex, and you sure as hell weren’t giving it to her. She wanted someone she trusts, had a bad experience at a bar once. So we kinda started a thing. Nothing serious.”

Brad sort of suspects it might have the beginnings of something serious, at least based on how Delany’s acting, but that’s a thought for another time. Because - if what he says is true - Brad’s world has just tilted off its entire axis.

Claire.

Has feelings for him.

Feelings not too different from his, apparently. Feelings that - she was too afraid to act on? Was afraid he didn’t share?

(Feelings that she then shared with Delany, along with other things, his brain supplies, but again, for another time.)

It’s at that moment that Claire chooses to stumble into the kitchen, fluffy haired and sleep-clumsy, while Brad is still frozen and gaping.

“Morning,” she yawns. “Alex? Why are you dressed?”

“I told him,” Delany says simply, pushing up off the counter and flicking off the heat under the eggs. “Think it’s time for me to head out. Be gentle with him, ‘kay? He’s having some difficulty accepting it.” Delany pulls Claire close, drops a swift kiss to her head, then they hear him let himself out her apartment door.

“Eggs?” Claire prompts, having procured a plate from somewhere, as if feeding a half-naked Brad Leone in her kitchen after some of the best sex of his life is a normal morning to her.

Eating is literally the last thing on Brad’s mind, but he accepts the proffered food on autopilot.

He can’t stop thinking about Delany’s words. _“She’s been gone on you for years,”_ for sure, but also _“Claire’s just a woman who loves sex” _and _“Nothing serious.”_

Well then.

While he’s been processing, Claire has plated her own breakfast, adding a few chives and a dash of paprika. He watches her, hungrily, a parched man in the desert, cataloguing all of her little mannerisms and movements like he hasn’t spent literal years admiring her across their bench.

When she levers herself up onto the counter to eat, too lazy to move to the couch just a few feet away, he’s had enough. He discards his plate carelessly, Claire starting at the clatter.

“Brad?” she asks as he plucks her own meal out of her hands before she can even take the first bite. “What’s going -“

“I’ve been in love with you for, like, ever,” he blurts out. “I - you, too?”

And the sight of her smile breaking across her face, that winning one when she finally cracks a Gourmet Make or produces a perfect pie or even when she makes him laugh at a stupid joke, makes the splintered parts of him feel whole again.

“Yeah, me too, you idiot,” she says fondly, and the words sound like I love you to his ears. “Took long enough for you to catch on, huh?”

He’s stepping forward between her legs, crowding up into her like last night, but this time it’s level headed and intentional and there’s nothing between them but the space of all the time they’d wasted being scared.

He curls his palm around her cheek, reverent and hesitant, like he’s ached of doing for so long that it feels like he’s dreaming. She leans into the caress, looks up at him under her lashes again - this time with a sweetness and open emotion that makes him take a sharp breath in.

“I’m so fuckin’ lucky,” he says, shaking his head in wonder. “You sure you’re all there, Claire? Not still buzzed or somethin’ from Carla’s party?”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated and thrilled all at once, and winds her arms around his neck.

“I don’t know, Brad, maybe I _am _crazy. Might wanna just shut up and kiss me anyway.”

And so he does, over and over and over again, until he forgets what it was ever like to exist without his lips on hers.

*

“You ’n me, Saffitz,” he murmurs hours later, bodies curled into one another, fingers tracing patterns into the landscape of new bodies so recently explored. “You ’n me.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for making it this far. whew, what a time.
> 
> as always, my undying love to @stupidsecretthings. you know already, but you're a queen & this would not be here without you.
> 
> if you would like to see some parts of this that I cut, lemme know.
> 
> please keep this where it's supposed to be, no sharing, let's all be cool humans.


End file.
